


Débinage

by Pseudothyrum



Series: The Discoverie of Witchcraft [7]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, The Question (Comics)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Hub City is a garbage fire, The Past, The past will always come back to bite you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 02:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: Back in Hub City, the past rears its ugly head, and Charlie has to ask himself just how much he really trusts John.





	Débinage

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to my beta, without whom I could not write. 
> 
> It also goes out to everybody who has commented or left kudos on these stories, you keep me going and I love all of you.

The pounding on the door has grown insistent, joined now by a muffled voice shouting something inaudible. Constantine jerks his head up and glares in the direction of the door. 

“I swear to fucking god,” he says, forcefully wrapping a sheet around himself and slithering off the bed, “whoever that is, I’m going to murder them.” Charlie, still lying on the bed and panting slightly, pulls his arm away from where it was flung over his eyes. 

“Please don’t kill anybody, John,” he manages to gasp, “if you get blood on my walls I’ll never get my security deposit back.” Constantine grumbles and stalks out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him and grumbling even louder when the edge of his sheet catches in the door and tugs him backward momentarily. In the time it takes him to open the door and free himself he catches the briefest snippet of what sounds like Charlie laughing at him. He storms to the front door and flings it open, startling the man on the other side mid-knock. 

“Oh,” says the cop, slowly lowering his hand, and eying Constantine’s makeshift clothing with alarm, “uh--”

“Yeah? What the fuck d’you want, mate, we’re kind of in the middle of something here.” 

“Uh, police,” he says, as if this were not immediately apparent, “I’ve been sent to talk to Mr. Victor Sage? Are you, uh, Mr. Sage?” Constantine snorts.

“Do I look like a ginger to you?” he leans against the doorjamb. 

“No?” the cop replies cautiously. 

“Good to see they train Hub City’s finest well,” Constantine says, longing for a cigarette. 

“... But this is Mr. Sage’s address, right?” he asks after an uncomfortable pause. 

“I certainly fucking hope so, or it’s going to be pretty awkward for me when whoever owns this place pitches up.” 

“And, uh, is Mr. Sage home right now?” he perseveres admirably. 

“Depends,” Constantine says, “you gonna take him down to the station right now?”

“Yes, the detectives have a few--”

“Then nope,” Constantine says, putting a hand on the cop’s forehead. The man’s eyes slide out of focus and he stands rigidly in place. Constantine drags him in through the door, looking quickly out into the corridor to make sure no other cops are lurking there, and slamming the door behind him. He leans the cop up against the door and sweeps back into the bedroom, where Charlie is sitting propped up against the headboard.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, concerned, “Did he say he was with the poli--”

“No,” Constantine says shortly, dropping his sheet. Neither of them think about the police for a while after that. 

***

“By the way,” John says into the silence, “that cop wanted to talk to you.” Charlie slowly rolls over onto his side so he’s looking at him. 

“Did he leave a card, or say that I should go down to the station?” 

“Dunno, love, you can go out and ask him.” John does a sort of shuffling, lazy shrug. Charlie freezes, then leaps out of bed, flying to acquire his clothing as quickly as possible. 

“He’s still out there?! Oh my _god_ , John,” he says breathlessly, tugging on his pants and searching desperately for a shirt.

“Aw, relax Charlie,” he says, a faint hint of laughter in his voice, “I hypnotized him, as far as he’s concerned no time at all has passed.” Charlie snatches up his tie and jacket and hurries into the main room. True to John’s word, there’s a police officer leaned up against the front door like a plank of wood, his half-open eyes gazing sightlessly ahead even when Charlie waves a hand in front of them. He gently sets the cop back onto his own feet and then steps back, considering.

“John,” he calls as he tightens the tie around his own neck, “how do I wake him up?” From the bedroom John shouts something incomprehensible, and the cop’s eyes snap into focus. He looks around, eyes darting around the room. 

“Wh-what happened to the Irish guy?” the cop-- Higgins, he sees from the front of his uniform-- asks. 

“ _Irish_?!” John yells from the bedroom, before settling into thankfully inaudible muttering. Vic rolls his eyes, shrugging into his jacket. Higgins looks him up and down. 

“Did a lot of time just pass?” he sounds on the edge of a nervous breakdown, “it feels like I just lost a lot of time.”

“No,” Vic reassures him, flattening his collar, “so, what can I do for you, officer?” 

“Uh, I was sent to bring you to the police station. Detective Augello is asking you to come in to answer a couple of questions about a recent case.” Vic freezes in the middle of tugging his cuffs straight. 

“Detective Augello?” he asks as casually as he can. Higgins nods. “Do I need a lawyer?” Higgins shrugs. 

“I don’t know, to be honest. Sorry,” he seems genuine. Vic nods slowly, scooping up his keys from the table. 

“So what is this, a shag and dash? From your own flat? I’d be impressed if I weren’t so offended, love,” John is leaning against the doorway into the bedroom, still sheet-clad.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, hurrying over and giving John a quick, slightly self-conscious peck on the cheek. He thinks he sees John blush slightly before he turns back to the officer, who is looking away. “Lead the way.”

***

“I’d like to speak to my lawyer,” Vic leans back in the uncomfortable chair, keeping his face as blank as possible, and crosses his arms. 

“Are you sure that’s how you want to play this, _Charlie_?” Augello’s eyes bore into his own, his fists planted in the middle of the table, face thrust towards Vic. For his part, Vic does his best not to let his lip curl.

“Lawyer,” he says flatly. 

“We could help you, you know, make this easier on you,” Augello’s partner-- O’Brien he thinks-- says from somewhere to the left. Vic doesn’t break eye contact with Augello. 

“Lawyer,” he says again. 

“I know you want a lawyer,” she says, “I’m just trying to help you.”

“Or you could just answer the fu--” Augello is cut off by somebody knocking. 

“His lawyer is here,” says the woman leaning through the door. Vic looks back at Augello, burying his surprise and confusion under a triumphant smirk. Augello continues to glare until his partner taps his shoulder and, reluctantly, with a final glowering look cast in Vic’s direction, he departs. He has only a few seconds of silence to himself before John swaggers in through the door, a smug look on his face. 

“All right, Ch--Vic?” he says, eyes flicking for the briefest instant towards the mirror.

“Hello John,” he says calmly, “why exactly are you here?” Constantine’s grin widens.

“I’m your lawyer, aren’t I? Now, tell me what you “allegedly” did,” he does exaggerated air quotes around the word ‘allegedly,’ “and do it as vaguely as possible so that they don’t get anything out of it. Since, y’know, you’re innocent and all,” he says this last slightly louder, winking at Charlie. 

“They aren’t listening, they think you’re my lawyer,” he says, trying and failing to stop himself from smiling. 

“Oh,” John says, looking genuinely surprised and thrilled, “brilliant! So, what’d you do then? Did they figure out about--” he passes a hand over his face and then executes several clumsy mock punches. 

“Is that how you throw a punch? Thank god you can do magic--” he ignores John’s offended gasp “--and no, they don’t think I’m the Question.”

“That’s good for you, then. So, what? Did they reinstate buggery laws?”

“They think that I murdered someone.” John whistles. 

“Well, I guess this is Hub City, so I shouldn’t be too surprised by wild incompetence. Why do they think you killed this bloke?” 

“He was beaten to death near my apartment.”

“What, is that it? I mean, no offense, love, but being near a crime occurring isn’t exactly unusual when you’re in Hub City.”

“I don’t have an alibi.”

“Why not?” 

“That...” he tries not to say it, but can’t help himself, “is the question.” John narrows his eyes.

“You are so very bloody lucky I didn’t think to bring an egg timer with me,” he says, then sighs, “so, no alibi, that’s not exactly putting any final nails in your coffin. Anything else?” 

“I,” he tries not to hesitate and fails, “knew him.”

“Charlie, I have better ways to spend my day than trying to pull answers out of you. I could be focusing on my promising legal career, for example. So, d’you want to tell me everything, or would you rather I just send all the cops to Hell?” 

“Hell is bad. Don’t do Hell.”

“Bad,” John agrees, “but effective.”

“No Hell,” he says with finality. John makes an, ‘out with it, then’ gesture, and Charlie sighs.

“We grew up together in the orphanage and we were... not friends. Augello knew me then, and knows that we didn’t get along. And apparently they found an appointment to meet me on his phone.” 

“Is that everything?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, his face carefully neutral. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“No,” he agrees, smiling. 

“So, they really aren’t watching us?” John asks, leaning his elbows onto the table. 

“It would be illegal. Although, as you rightly pointed out, this is Hub City. So... they _probably_ aren’t.” 

“Well, if they aren’t watching then they’ll never know what we do in here, and if they are... we might as well give them a show,” he winks.

“John, please stop trying to come up with new reasons for them to arrest me.” 

***

Charlie trails after him out of the interrogation room looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. He keeps darting looks at the big cop with the stereotypical moustache, looks that Constantine can’t read, something between anger and fear, and Constantine would be extremely interested to find out what’s going on there and just what it is that Charlie thinks he’s hiding so well. But first, best to spring him from jail. 

“’Lo mates,” he says jovially, slapping the moustachioed cop on the back, “I spoke to my client and it sounds like you’ve got fuck all to go on, so... we’ll be leaving as long as he isn’t under arrest.” The moustachioed cop looks at him with narrowed eyes. 

“I’m sorry counselor, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he holds out his hand, “Detective Joe Augello. This is my partner, Anne O’Brien. You are...?”

“John Constantine,” he says. The cop from Charlie’s flat leans out from where he was partially obscured by O’Brien. 

“That’s the Irish guy from his apartment,” his eyes widen in distress. 

“I’m still not bloody Irish,” Constantine says through gritted teeth. 

“He’s clearly Scottish, Tony,” O’Brien half whispers. Constantine fights back his deep offence on behalf of Charlie. 

“This isn’t important,” he says with some effort, turning to face Augello, who is staring at him with a newly speculative look, “can my client leave now?”

“You’re, uh, dating your client, counselor?” 

“What’s it to you?” 

“Isn’t that some sort of ethics violation?” 

“Well, I _am_ a lawyer,” he says, offering his most ingratiating and insincere smile. Augello continues to stare at him, unsmiling, something calculating and strangely soft in his eyes. “Pinky swear I’ll sue myself over it later. Can we go now?”

“Sure, sure,” says Augello, “he’s free to go for now, this was just a courtesy visit to get some facts straight.” His eyes flick over to where Charlie is loitering by the door. “Ah, Mr. Constantine, may I have a word in private before you leave?” Constantine glances back at Charlie, who looks mildly panicked, and shrugs. 

“Lead the way, squire,” he says, and follows him down the corridor to an empty room that looks like a nursery, and which he supposes is used to question child witnesses. Constantine feels vaguely offended.

“Listen John, can I call you John?” he doesn’t wait for Constantine’s response, “you’ve done a really great job coaching him. I’m amazed he didn’t try something during the questioning.” 

“Uhh,” Constantine says, confused, but Augello continues over him. 

“But I imagine he can’t control that temper of his all the time, am I right?” He says this gently, kindly. 

“His... temper?” Constantine asks, incredulous, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate. Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

“I am, John. I’m sure you two have fought before.” 

“Uh, sorry mate, do you think you could maybe be more vague? Feels like you’re getting dangerously close to making your point here.”

“Did it ever get out of hand? Has he ever left marks?”

“Not in anger, if you catch me drift, mate.” 

“Is that what he tells you, that he does it because he loves you?”

“Uhh--”

“I know this isn’t easy to talk about John, I understand completely. And I know it must be difficult for you to say, knowing that he’s in the building, but look, here’s my card,” he holds the card out until Constantine reluctantly takes it, “you can call me at any time. All of us here want to help you.” Constantine’s brain works furiously to find some snide remark, but he’s so thrown off by the situation that all he can do is stare at the card in his hand, mouth slightly agape.

“Right,” he says, finally giving up, “that’s... brilliant, thanks. So... I’ll just go, then.” He backs out of the room and walks down the corridor, chased by Augello’s unsettlingly compassionate gaze. Charlie is still standing more or less where he left him, O’Brien and Higgins huddled in the far corner casting suspicious glances at him where he is leaning, stone-faced, beside the door. Constantine jerks his head towards the exit and Charlie smoothly pushes off the wall and follows him out of the room. 

“What did he want?” Charlie asks quietly, finally unable to contain his curiosity as they make their way through the lobby.

“You _sure_ he doesn’t know about--” he passes his hand over his face again.

“I’m pretty sure, why?” 

“He thinks you’re beating me up,” he says, laughing. 

“Wait, he-- what? He... _wha_ t? John, wait--” Charlie stops in the middle of the street in front of the station, one hand closing tightly around Constantine’s upper arm and pulling him back around so they’re standing face to face. Constantine looks down at the hand on his arm and Charlie instantly releases it, looking behind him guiltily, as if Augello might have followed them out. “Sorry,” he says, dropping his hands awkwardly to his sides. 

“Pfft, Charlie, that’s nothing. My arm’s still in its socket, this is already miles ahead of the father’s day when I forgot to buy beer.” Charlie looks mildly stricken, and Constantine’s smile crumbles slightly as he shrugs. “That aside,” he presses on, taking Charlie’s hand and tugging him gently so that they’re both walking away from the station, “I don’t know what that bloke has against you, but this entire thing is ridiculous. I mean you’re not exactly the angry sort, are you?” Charlie laughs, but there is something forced and off-kilter about it. Constantine thinks about pressing the issue, but doesn’t fancy his chances. They walk in silence for a few minutes, Charlie staring at his own feet, barely looking up to dodge around the rubble from a collapsed building. 

“So, am I going to have to play twenty questions all night, or are you going to tell me a bit about this bloke that you “definitely didn’t murder?’” He puts air quotes around the last words. 

“His name was Adrian Babineaux. Ade to his friends, if he had any friends, which I doubt--”

“Tell me how you really feel, Charlie,” Constantine interrupts, but Charlie ignores him. 

“He was an accountant, did work for a couple of people on both sides of the law, which is pretty much unavoidable in Hub City. You can read his file when we get back to my place.” 

“His file? You have a file on this guy?” Constantine asks, eyebrows raising. 

“Yes.” 

“Do you have a file on everybody you know?” Charlie hesitates for a moment.

“Maybe.” 

“Charlie. Do you have a file on me?” There is a glimmer of amusement in Charlie’s eyes for the first time since he’d left his flat with Higgins. 

“No comment,” he says, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. 

“I’m going to find that file,” Constantine says. 

“Well,” Charlie says, as they come to the front door of his building, “you are welcome to try.”

***

He leaves John in the kitchen, threatening to make tea and force all the details out of him, and continues on into the bedroom. Fetching Adrian’s file out of its hidden place, he tosses it on the bed before beginning to change into his chemically treated clothing. 

“Charlie,” comes John’s distant voice through the closed door, “where’s your kettle?” 

“In the cupboard over the stove,” he calls back, hunting through his drawers for his orange socks.

“No it isn’t,” John shouts, “this is not a kettle, Charlie, it doesn’t plug in. What is wrong with you people?” Charlie sighs, tugging his socks on. 

“I literally don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Electric! Kettle!” 

“Just heat the mug up in the microwave!” He can hear John’s offended gasp through the door. He picks up his mask and returns to the kitchen, where John is facing the sink, muttering to himself. 

“Not even an electric kettle. I’m going to be burnt at the bloody stake because I’m in the bloody dark ages,” he grumbles. 

“And yet we have microwaves,” Charlie says, dropping Adrian Babineaux’s file on the island. 

“Oh, very bloody clever, you--” John turns around, and cuts himself off as his eyes fall on the mask in his hands, “what’ve you got that for? Don’t you have to wait until it’s dark or something?” 

“We aren’t all such drama queens,” he says, “that’s Adrian’s file there, you can read it while I’m gone,” he tugs on his gloves, “don’t wait up for me.”

“If I don’t wait up for you then how will I know that you eat the dinner that I spend all day in the kitchen slaving away over?” John says, huffily.

“I--” 

“Because you’re leaving me behind while you go out to do all the work,” John clarifies, still huffy. 

“Yes, I got that,” Charlie says, casting about for a reasonable excuse, “I just think it might be too dangerous for--” 

“More dangerous than Hell?” John breaks in again, “Which I’ve been to? Several times?” Charlie changes tack as quickly and smoothly as he can. 

“Dangerous for us to be seen together, since I’ll be the Question and, no offense, but your disguise is literally just you, and, since we just got done very clearly assuring the police that we are affiliated, they’ll definitely think it’s suspicious that we’re together investigating a crime that I’m being charged with.” John stares at him with narrowed eyes for what feels like ten minutes, before he finally shrugs, expression sullen. 

“Fine. I’ll stay here, maybe tidy the place up,” he casts a flat look at the single spoon in the sink, the only item out of place in the kitchen. 

“Thank you, John,” he says, flooded with a relief that almost manages to drown out the guilt, “honestly, I won’t be gone that long, I just want to check out some possible leads.” He turns to go, tucking the mask into its hiding place on his belt until he can find a convenient alley to put it on in. 

“Oi,” says John, and Charlie turns back to him, “leaving without a good luck kiss?” he asks, still a little sullen. Charlie has the vaguest sense of a trap, but goes to him anyways. At the last second John turns his face to the side, leaving Charlie to kiss his cheek, though he still runs his hands gently over Charlie’s torso. Trying not to think about it too hard, Charlie turns and leaves. 

***

Adrian’s apartment is small, neat, and shabby. It has the unsettlingly desolate air of a place that has been long abandoned, though its owner has been dead for less than a day. A microwaveable dinner tray is in the sink, a fork crusted with an unidentifiable red sauce beside it. Question moves quickly through the tiny kitchen into the cramped living room. Adrian’s laptop is missing, its absence both conspicuous and expected. There are some papers scattered across the desk, a few drawers hanging slightly open that were clearly riffled by the police. Also as expected, their work was remarkably slipshod, Question reflects as he fishes Adrian’s tablet out from where it is wedged between the desk and the wall. He pulls the top right drawer out further and feels around the top until his fingers find the post-it note stuck there, with its neat list of passwords. His eye catches momentarily on a pamphlet advertising a relationship and marriage counseling retreat at a spa near Hub City. Unusual, considering Adrian was unmarried. He regards it for a long moment, then tucks it into his coat to investigate later, and turns his attention back to the tablet. 

“This is dead spooky,” says a voice behind him, and Question can’t help but jump, spinning around to face John, who is leaning against the wall next to the television. 

“How did you find me?” he asks, knowing it is a stupid question even as it leaves his mouth.

“Magic, innit,” John says, taking a long drag on his cigarette. 

“Why did you come? I told you it was a bad idea. What if someone had seen you?” 

“Someone did, I just called a minor demon into them,” he says, smirking. 

“That’s not funny, John,” he snaps, “anybody could have seen you come here.”

“It’s cute how you think I can’t just make people see what I want them to,” he says, shimmering slightly. In his place stands a stunningly beautiful woman. Her blond hair is tied up in a messy bun, long strands hair falling out to frame her heart-shaped face. Her round glasses are perched halfway down her nose, a blouse that’s half unbuttoned reveals her very full chest and lacy red bra, and her too-tight gray pencil skirt is slit just high enough to reveal the top of a thigh-high stocking. She winks and blows a kiss at Question, who is suddenly intensely grateful for his mask. 

“Oh my god, John,” he says before he can stop himself. The woman smiles triumphantly.

“Like what you see?” her voice is low, smoky and melodic, but the accent is unchanged.

“Please tell me you didn’t walk around Hub City dressed like that,” he tries to recover.

“Might’ve done,” she says, shrugging.

“John,” he says as seriously as he can as the woman pats at her skin-tight clothing, “do you have any idea how dangerous that could have been?” 

“Well, _someone_ didn’t want me showing my real face,” she says, pulling a packet of cigarettes out from no pocket that Question is able to see, “had to adapt, didn’t I?”

“You could have just stayed at home. You know, like I told you to.” 

“Charlie,” she says admonishingly, stepping forward and placing her free hand gently on his cheek, “it’s like you don’t know me at all.” He doesn’t quite manage to suppress the shudder when her hand makes contact with him, and she arches a perfect eyebrow.

“Can you maybe not smoke in the middle of the crime scene that we have illegally entered, John?” he says a bit too harshly, scrambling for a cover.

“Can’t smoke in pubs, can’t smoke in airports, can’t smoke at crime scenes,” John says mournfully, and he is John again, the woman vanishing as suddenly as she had appeared, “land of the bloody free, innit.” He makes no move to stub the cigarette out. Question stares at him for a moment, and lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Do you want to look around, see if you notice anything out of place? Maybe try the bedroom?” he says, flipping open the tablet’s cover. 

“What, so you can scurry off to somewhere else as soon as my back is turned?” his voice is light, but it’s clear that he’s not joking, “why don’t you go to the bedroom, and I’ll stay here, by the front door.” 

“It hurts that you don’t trust me, John,” he says, his tone as casual as he can keep it. John raises an eyebrow eloquently, and he sighs and hands him the unlocked tablet as he stands and walks back towards the bedroom. “Let me know what you find,” he calls over his shoulder. 

***

Constantine watches Charlie push his way into the bedroom, seemingly untroubled by Constantine’s eyes on his back. He stares at the half open door for a few seconds longer before dropping his eyes to the tablet in his hands, which Charlie has already unlocked by unknown means. He flips through a few pages of apps idly, ears pricked up for any movement from the bedroom. He can hear Charlie shuffling objects around, the occasional scrape of a drawer being pulled out and rummaged. There is a part of him that feels like a berk for not trusting Charlie like this, but there’s something about the way he’s been acting since he got out of that interrogation room that’s put Constantine on edge. Frowning to himself, he opens the mail client, waiting the age it takes for it to load all of the emails Adrian Babineaux has missed since popping his clogs. He watches them ping into the inbox, and begins to work his way through the online shopping advertisements, newsletters, and warnings that the email address was definitely going to be shut down unless he clicked on this shady link right now. 

“Oi, Charlie,” he calls out, “how likely is it that he was murdered because he allegedly stole Karen’s muffins from the break room on Wednesday?” 

“Does she say what kind they were?” Charlie calls back. He scans the vitriolic email. 

“Carrot bran,” he replies. 

“Definitely not worth prison for.” Constantine nods to himself; it’s a good point. He flips through a few more emails, moving on to those that had already been opened. 

“What kind of parent names their child Miriam de Wees?” he asks aloud, “It sounds like a fake name. A classy Dutch escort, maybe.” Charlie makes a strange choking noise from the bedroom. Constantine half rises to check on him before Charlie’s head pops around the door

“I might know her,” he says in explanation.

“What.” Constantine says, his eyes narrowing.

“She’s not an escort, John. Could you read the email out to me?” he disappears back into the bedroom, and the unexpected wave of relief jumpstarts his heart back into a normal rhythm. He clears his throat, irritated with himself, and begins to read. 

“‘Dear Adrian. I’m sorry, I tried to keep quiet, but I can’t ignore it any longer. Over the past month you’ve been nothing but cold to me. What happened? Are you okay?’” He stops. “It’s just more of this, Charlie. ‘Blah, blah, blah, you never call, you never write, why don’t you indulge my obsessive craziness anymore?’ ‘S’all very bloody desperate.” There is a flurry of shuffling movements from the bedroom. 

“Keep reading,” Charlie calls, “it might be important.” Constantine sighs, but continues. 

“‘I know it really isn’t any of my business, but you have me worried.’ So I will make it my business, because I’m a nosy bitch. That last part wasn’t actually in the email,” he clarifies, “that’s just my interpretation.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Charlie says, unsuccessfully trying to hide the laughter in his voice. 

“I’ll try to be more clear from now on when I do that.” 

“Thanks, John."

“Ahem. ‘It reminds me of when we were younger. The nuns didn’t even want me to talk to you after everything that happened, but I still did.’ She’s a saint, Charlie. Did you interview her before or after she was canonized?”

“She’s a genuinely nice person, John.” 

“I’m sure the Pope agrees with you.” 

“Can you please continue?"

“‘We’ve been friends for so long, it makes me sad to see you revert to that sullen boy the nuns were so disappointed in. Honestly, it seems to me like your therapist isn’t helping with anything. You talk to him every week, yet you’ve done nothing but get more and more moody.’ I’ll bet whatever you want that ‘moody’ means ‘you’ve started to complain about receiving fifteen calls from me every bloody hour.’” 

“You’re doing a lot of assuming, John,” Charlie says, disapproval clear in his voice. 

“And you’re doing a lot of excusing,” he counters 

“Just--” Charlie sighs, “ just keep reading.”

“Everyone has noticed, especially on Wednesdays-- that’s when you meet him, isn’t it? I may not be as clever as you, but it doesn’t take much to see a correlation there.’ You’ve been fucking him, haven’t you? I can just picture you now, leaning over his desk, whispering ‘401k plan’ into his ear.” Charlie laughs, his voice strained as if he’s moving a heavy object.

“‘A therapist that tries to drive a wedge between you and the rest of the world is not a good one, Ade. Please, stop letting him control you, and come back to your friends. I am always here for you, Ade, whenever you want, you just have to take the first step. Your loving friend, Miriam.’ Pretty bloody desperate all in all, Charlie.” He listens for a response from the bedroom. Silence, not even the shuffling movements of Charlie searching the nooks and crannies. Growing suspicious, he tucks the tablet into a pocket of his coat and hurries to the bedroom. It’s empty, the wind rustling the curtains through the open window, which leads out onto a fire escape. Constantine lets out a low whistle and fishes in his pocket for the nail from Saint Padua’s coffin.

“Oh,” he says, scanning the horizon, feeling the nail tug in the direction of its mate, “you _dick_.”

***

Vic smoothes his hair with one hand, ringing the doorbell with the other. He notices that he’s chewing on the corner of his lower lip and stops, pressing his lips together tightly as he glances nervously behind himself, half expecting to see John standing there. He turns back to Miriam’s door and wonders if he should have called ahead. They haven’t spoken to each other, really spoken, since he was eighteen and leaving for university. He wonders if she heard the bell, if maybe he should ring again. Maybe she isn’t even in. He should have called ahead. His hand, almost to the bell, drops back to his side, and he looks back at the quiet, affluent street on which Miriam’s house sits. He gives in and presses the doorbell again, listening to it echo through the house. He thinks maybe he hears someone moving inside, but it’s too faint to be sure. Could maybe be someone in a backyard next door. He considers pressing the buzzer again, hand halfway back to it when the voice behind him interrupts. 

“I wouldn’t ring it again,” John says, “wouldn’t want to look too desperate, eh?” he steps onto the porch, cigarette hanging from his mouth, his face completely smooth. 

“John,” he says, feeling panic and guilt rising in his throat in equal measure, “how did you find me?” It’s a stupid question, not what he needs to be asking right now. He needs John to leave before Miriam comes to the door. 

“I think the real question is wha--” John is cut off by the door finally opening. A woman with long black hair peers out over the chain at them, her strikingly grey eyes looking curiously between them before settling on Vic. Miriam stares at him, brow furrowing minimally as she tries to place him, clearly struggling to put his familiar face in a context that makes sense. She suddenly breaks into a broad grin, closing the door, the chain rattling free with alarming speed.

“Charlie!” she says, flinging the door wide, surprise and delight playing across her face, and for a moment he worries she might attempt a hug.

“Hi Miriam. It’s, uh, Vic now,” he says, uncomfortably returning her smile, “This is my--” he hesitates for a fraction of a second-- “colleague, John Constantine.” He can practically feel the temperature drop around John, the coldness radiating off of him even as he grins easily and shakes her hand.

“Miriam, isn’t it?” he says, holding her hand a second too long, “Sorry, I’m afraid Vic hasn’t told me too much about you.” Miriam’s grin dims slightly, clearly registering John’s tone, and she visibly gathers herself before speaking again. 

“Please, come on in, both of you!” She steps back, ushering them into her foyer, “Can I take your coats? Go on through to the living room, sit wherever you want.” Vic sits on the edge of one of the couches, instinctively choosing the seat with the best view of the exits and entrances. John glides after him, his face impassive even when Miriam asks him if he’d mind not smoking in the house. “Can I get either of you something to drink?” Vic shakes his head mutely. 

“No, you’re alright, luv,” John says, his smile painfully insincere, as he takes up residence in a plush armchair.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, Charlie?” she turns her attention back to him. 

“No, thank you. And it’s Vic.” 

“Of course, Vic, sorry,” she perches on the other couch, clearly ready to leap into action should either of them show even the slightest hint of requiring a drink or small snack. “So, how are you doing?” 

“Um, I’m alright, thanks. I--”

“And how’s that girl you were seeing, what was her name, Helena?” 

“We, uh, split up. A few years ago, actually.” He glances at John, who is glowering at nothing in particular. 

“Oh dear, that’s a shame Charlie, you two seemed so perfect together,” Miriam reaches over to pat his knee sympathetically. He struggles not to withdraw further back into the couch. He can see a muscle jumping in John’s cheek.

“Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair, eyes on a spot over her shoulder so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye, “well--” 

“Anyone else in your life, then?” she asks brightly. He feels a sudden pressure to look at John. 

“Um, no,” he regrets it as soon as he’s said it. To his right, John coughs, an obviously fake cough. Miriam turns her eyes on him. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Constantine, I meant to ask, what is it you do?” 

“Well, I--”

“A consultant!” Vic jumps in before he can get any further, “he’s a consultant.” John leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I’m a consultant,” he says, voice laden with distaste. 

“How interesting!” Miriam seems to be unaware of the mood, “so, tell me, what brings a dashing anchorman and a consultant to my door?”

“I’m here about Adrian,” he says, willing her to not say anything revealing. Her smile immediately freezes on her face, her expression turning sickly as her eyes dart to John before returning to Vic’s face. 

“Adrian?” she says, searching his face for something, “Did he talk to you?” He shakes his head.

“I haven’t spoken to him since--” he trails off, and Miriam simply nods, seeming not particularly eager to retread old ground either.

“You heard that he was murdered?” She whispers the last word, practically mouths it, as though refusing to utter it at full volume might somehow make it less real. He nods.

“They think--” he briefly considers telling her everything, but the pressure of John’s eyes on him change his words mid-sentence-- “the cops said that he wanted to talk to me, that he was coming to see me right before he died. I know you... forgave him--” he feels the weight of John’s attention intensify-- “did he tell you anything? Anything about why he would want to talk to me?” Her brow wrinkles.

“He did mention to me... but I don’t know if it could be related to why he died. You know he was seeing a psychiatrist?” her lip briefly curls, the barest hint of a frown that is smoothed away almost immediately. He nods again. “He mentioned that he was feeling guilty about everything that happened, you know, what he did. He was always talking about making amends with you. Maybe that’s why he was heading to your place. It’s been a long time, Charlie, maybe it was finally time to move past it.” Vic feels a burning, boiling pressure in his chest, rage threatening to claw its way up his throat. He struggles to take a moment to attend to his breathing, fighting it down. Miriam watches him, and he registers something vaguely wary in her eyes, something like fear. His anger is immediately doused in a tidal wave of shame, and he drops his eyes to his hands, which uncurl in his lap. “Have you tried talking to his psychiatrist?” she asks, her tone conciliatory, which intensifies the painful feeling in his chest. “I know he’s probably not supposed to talk to you about it, but you’re a journalist, you’re good at that sort of thing.” Her voice is brittle, too bright and cheerful. He can feel John’s eyes boring into him, reading too much into all of this. 

“Thank you, Miriam,” he says, standing suddenly, ignoring the way she immediately flinches backwards, “we’ll go talk to him.” He can’t bring himself to look at John. His skin burns and prickles, and he desperately wants to be out of this house, stifling and ostentatious with its displays of wealth. It is different in every way from the orphanage, but in this moment he feels as though he is back there, helpless and out of control. Miriam stands uncertainly, and he hears John rising behind him. “Thank you,” he repeats, “I really appreciate you talking to me. To us.” She smiles kindly, her eyes gentle, understanding. 

“That’s alright, Charlie, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.” He grits his teeth involuntarily as she turns to John, her smile growing slightly more brittle in response to whatever expression he is making. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Constantine,” she says, extending a hand to him. 

“I’m sure it was,” John responds, his tone even. She frowns, but makes no further comment as she leads them out of the house. 

“Good luck, Charlie,” she says, and she shuts the door behind them. 

***

“Well,” Constantine says, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door as they step together off the porch, “that was all very bloody cryptic. You think you could try to hide more from me, Charlie? Maybe start speaking entirely in code? It’s just no bloody fun if I have any bloody idea what’s going on.” He fishes his fags from his coat and attempts to light one as he and Charlie come to a stop on the street corner. The lighter clicks uselessly in his hand several times, and he nearly chucks it into the bushes, then thinks better of it and shoves it back into the depths of his coat, snapping his fingers and lighting the fag with the white-blue flame conjured there. Through it all Charlie doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the ground, shoulders hunched and hands thrust deep into his pockets. 

“So,” Constantine says, “d’you want me to turn my back so you can fuck off again, or would you rather surprise me?” Charlie finally looks up at him, and there is a cacophony of emotions at play on his face, so unlike his usual calm collection. Constantine sees guilt, shame, hurt, a touch of anger. 

“I didn’t, I don’t--” his mouth moves soundlessly as he searches for words, “I’m sorry.” He hunches in on himself further, but whatever amount of concern Constantine feels for him is burned away immediately. 

“Sorry,” he says, “but you’re not going to tell me whatever the fuck is happening.” Charlie doesn’t answer for a long time. 

“There’s nothing to tell,” he says finally.

“What? I don’t deserve an answer? So we’re going from cryptic to nothing at all, then?”

“You’re making this bigger than it is, John.” 

“Well I’m sorry I’m not a bloody saint, Charlie, we can’t all be canonized while we’re still living. Or have such exquisite taste in sheep’s clothing.” Charlie’s brow furrows. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You bloody do. Your dear Miriam is a snake.”

“She...?” Charlie’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open slightly, “John, she’s the victim here.” 

“Victim of what?” he asks, trying to insinuate himself into the inadvertent opening, but Charlie’s mouth snaps closed. 

“You’re being unreasonable,” he says. 

“You’d see it too, if you weren’t so blinded by whatever history it is that you two were so busy talking around.” He knows he sounds like a child, but he can’t stop himself. 

“Our history is none of your business.” 

“Yeah, so it seems,” Constantine snaps, tone clipped. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, feeling Charlie’s eyes on him but refusing to acknowledge them. 

“Look, none of this matters,” there’s a wheedling note to Charlie’s voice, “Miriam isn’t what matters here. Adrian is.”

“Sure,” Constantine breathes the word out with a cloud of smoke. He watches it dissipate into the air. 

“Let’s just... just figure this out,” he sounds tired, defeated, “we’ll clear my name and then after it’s over I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” 

“Whatever you say. Lead the way, _Vic_ ,” He can’t help but look at Charlie’s face then, to watch the barb land. It’s spiteful and petty, he knows, and watching Charlie react prompts a spark of regret to force its way in through his righteous anger. Charlie’s face crumples, his mouth opening slightly as if he is gasping at being struck. It is perhaps the most unguarded Constantine has ever seen him, barring when he is sleeping. For a moment Constantine thinks that he’s going to spill everything, but then his mouth snaps closed and his eyes grow hard and impassive.

“Did you bring his tablet?” he asks, his voice cool and businesslike. Constantine frowns and slowly fetches the tablet out of his coat, passing it over. Charlie flips through the contents as Constantine watches, taking another drag on his cigarette, trying to push down the clamouring doubts that started as a spark and have since burst into flame. Maybe he is being completely unreasonable and he should mind his own business. Maybe Miriam really is perfectly innocent, and his instant dislike of her is based in something less noble than he’d like to believe, maybe it’s how he’ll destroy this one good thing he has going with Charlie. He looks back at Miriam’s unreasonably posh house, its perfectly landscaped yard, and he knows he’s not wrong. She may have managed to convince Charlie, but he knows there’s something going on there, something even deeper than whatever secret Charlie is so desperate to keep hidden. “So,” Charlie says, and Constantine looks away from the house, “it looks like his psychiatrist is Dr. Martin Hax. He’s got an office downtown,” he studies Constantine for a few seconds, “you coming?” Constantine nods, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his heel as he follows Charlie around the corner. He glances back at Miriam’s house just in time to see the curtains in one of the windows twitch closed.

***

John tails him through the Hub City streets, sticking close behind, smoking a seemingly endless supply of cigarettes. He hasn’t spoken a word since they left Miriam’s street, just followed wordlessly, expressionless. Increasingly he feels everything slipping through his fingers. Several times he considers saying something, explaining everything, even just some small part of what happened. Every time he moves to open his mouth the sickening shame that churns in his gut rises up, fills his mouth, and there is no space left for words. 

Dr. Martin Hax’s office building is shabby, but well maintained for a building in the middle of downtown Hub City. His name is one of a dozen listed in the empty, rundown lobby, marking his office as being on the third floor. Charlie walks cautiously up the stairs, the hair on the back of his neck pricking up with the sense that something is wrong. The building feels too still. He glances back at John, still following behind, his face blandly disinterested in his surroundings. Hax’s door is several doors along on the left. It opens into a small, unlit waiting area, a window looks onto a receptionist’s desk, abandoned. He pushes through the door next to the window, and sees the doctor’s office on the left. The door is slightly ajar. He expects it to creak when he opens it, but it swings inwards completely silently. He makes it one step into the room and backs out hurriedly. 

“John,” he says, halting John where he stands with a hand on his chest, “don’t go in there.” John looks down at Charlie’s hand and then looks up at him, eyebrows raised. 

“What, I can’t even look at the people you’re talking to?” he asks, brushing Charlie’s hand away with one of his own. 

“Seriously, we can’t--” he steps in front of John as he tries to push past, grabbing his shoulders to stop him. 

“You fu--”

“John. The killer could still be in the building. You have to leave now, don’t touch anything and leave.” John’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

“There’s a killer in the building and you want us to _split up_? Have you literally never seen a horror movie?” He dodges Charlie’s hands and disappears into the office. Charlie chases him, but stays lingering in the doorway. His eyes are inexorably drawn to the Hax’s body, partially obscured by his large desk. The pool of blood is still spreading from his head, soaking into the threadbare rug. This was recent, he thinks, Hax might have died only minutes before they arrived. It was not an easy death; from the doorway he can see at least three broken bones, as well as at least one clear fracture of his skull. His hands are bloodied and raw, which might account for the viciousness of the final result: he tried to fight back, and Charlie doesn’t think the killer was expecting it.

“John!” he hisses as John skirts dangerously close to the body, circling it once, apparently fascinated, “please, can you just trust me for once and maybe not touch the dead body?” John looks at him coolly, then scoops a file off of the floor behind the desk. He steps around the puddle of blood and shoves the file into Charlie’s chest. 

“Maybe trust me too, yeah?” he says, pushing past and into the reception area. He looks down at the manila folder, which has “Babineaux, A.” written on the tab. He flips it open and skims the various notes and reports on Adrian, making note of several mentions of Miriam, all of which cast her in a surprisingly unflattering light, particularly around their latest interactions. He flips past them until he finds the short description of an event in Adrian’s childhood, and recent breakthroughs around it. A spike of guilt and anger hits him when he sees his own name, but Adrian seems to hold no animosity, only confusion about his role in the events. The latest notes mention Adrian’s plans to “confront his past and certain inconsistencies in his memories, and find closure about what happened.”

“I--” he starts, then cuts himself off-- “do you hear that?” They both freeze. In the stairwell outside the door the noise repeats itself: low voices, the crackle of a radio, steps on the creaky stairs. Charlie feels himself flooded by adrenalin. It pools in his stomach, a sickly, sickening feeling. “The police,” he whispers, “we need to leave right now.” It hits him then, and he sways a little on his feet, looking in at Hax’s body. “They’re going to think I did this.”

“Charlie,” John is suddenly standing beside him, his voice pitched low, “we have to go, _now_.” He lets himself be dragged through the office, around the body, out through the window and onto the fire escape. They’re pausing at the mouth of the alley behind the building before he even takes a breath. He registers that at some point John had taken his hand, and his fingers tighten unconsciously, drawing John’s attention from where he is peering off down the street. Another realization strikes him. 

“We can’t stop here,” he says, “we have to go back to my apartment. They’ll be coming soon.” 

“Yeah, that’s why we’re creeping about in alleyways, Charlie,” John says. 

“I mean they’ll go to my apartment. We need to get there, to establish an alibi. Whoever is doing this knows that I won’t have a good alibi.”

“Whoever-- you mean Miriam.”

“What?” he asks, taken aback. 

“Think about it, Charlie,” John says, his voice turning harsher, “who sent us here? Who sent us to find a dead man just as the police were coincidentally arriving?” 

“John, she wouldn’t--”

“Fuck’s sake, Charlie,” John says, throwing up his hands, dragging Charlie’s hand with him. 

“Look, seriously--” he tries to shake his hand free. 

“Keep holding my bloody hand!” John hisses, redoubling his grip, “D’you want every cop in the city to see you here?”

“What?” Charlie asks, and then it hits him that John is just extending some spell over him. His hand goes slack in John’s grip. “Oh,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah. Magic. You berk.” John mutters, dragging him out of the alley and onto the street towards home.

***

The streets around Charlie’s flat are dead quiet, but Charlie still insistently pulls him towards the fire escape rather than the front entrance. He is finally forced to release Charlie’s hand while he jumps to pull down the ladder, Charlie’s growing paranoia infecting him enough that his eyes sweep the surrounding area before following him up. Charlie clambers through the window and stops to offer Constantine a hand, which he ignores in favour of hoisting himself over the sill, flopping to the ground with dignity and grace when his foot catches on something. Withdrawing his hand, still silent, Charlie walks a few steps away, then turns on his heel and paces back. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. 

“Look, I--” he begins, and is immediately cut off by a loud, sharp rap at the door. Constantine groans internally, even as Charlie slowly approaches the door, looks through the peephole, then steps backwards. “John,” he says, eyes serious, “hide, okay?”

“Uh, no,” he says, “you think I’m just going to--” he cuts off as Charlie gently grabs him by the shoulders and guides him backwards into the bedroom.

“Don’t argue,” he closes the door in Constantine’s face. He thinks about going right back out, but instead cracks the door so he can hear the conversation. 

“Detective Augello,” Charlie says flatly as he opens the door, “why are you here?” 

“It’s good to see you too, Charlie,” Augello replies, “Are you alone? Where’s John?”

“Not here.”

“And where have you been in the past few hours? Here? All alone?” He tsks, sounds amused and maybe a little triumphant, “No alibi, then.”

“No alibi for what?” Charlie asks, not skipping a beat, “You trying to pin some graffiti on me now?”

“Murder, actually,” Augello pauses for dramatic effect, obviously expecting some sort of reaction from Charlie.

“What, Adrian’s? How many times is he going to die?” Charlie asks, not obliging.

“No, his therapist, who was just found dead in his office. The office which, I am reliably informed, you were visiting today. Can you account for your whereabouts today, Charlie?” Charlie hesitates, and Constantine, realizing that he needs an alibi, pushes hard against the nearby dresser, rattling it loudly against the wall. “What was that?” Augello asks, his voice growing louder as he approaches the door. As the footsteps draw nearer he chucks his coat into the corner and rips his tie off, clumsily kicking off his shoes.

“Nothing,” Charlie hurries closer, and Constantine suddenly remembers that he’s not supposed to be there. The glamour settles around him just as Augello opens the door. 

“Oops,” he giggles, moving his arms so the image of the woman will appear to be adjusting the scant clothing she is wearing, “sorry, Vic.” Augello’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. To his credit, he glances at Trixxxie’s tits for only a second before searching her face and then turning slowly to face Charlie. 

“Who is this, Charlie?” he asks, disapproval and disgust clear in his voice. 

“Nobody,” Charlie says, glaring at Constantine, “she’s just leaving.”

“My name is Trixxxie, officer,” at the last minute the thinks to tweak the accent, aiming for insipid posh bitch, “I can’t believe you’re throwing me out, Victor, after we’ve spent such a magical day together.” Behind Augello’s back, Charlie is shaking his head slowly, eyes closed. 

“You were together all day?” Augello asks, politely falling for Constantine’s line, “Here?”

“Well, we weren’t always in the bedroom, sometimes we were in the shower, or on the couch,” Trixxxie giggles again. Behind Augello’s back, Charlie is mouthing “why.”

“Right,” Augello says, looking over his shoulder at Charlie, his lip curling, “well, I’m sure you have places to be, ma’am. His... lawyer might be returning soon. You should go.” 

“Oh, no,” Constantine says, casting about for an excuse, “I’m sure he won’t be back for ages, officer, can’t I just stay here? I’ll keep quiet, I swear.” He bats his lashes at Augello. 

“No,” Charlie’s voice is as cold as his eyes, “he’s right, you should go.” He takes Constantine’s arm and guides him towards the front door. “Just go,” he whispers, “it’s safer for you. I’ll call when he’s gone.” Before Constantine can argue, the door is closing gently in his face.

***

Vic turns around slowly to face Augello, who is regarding him as though he is a disgusting insect. 

“I just don’t understand you, Charlie,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Vic,” he automatically protests, but there’s no real weight behind it. He’s too unfocused, can’t get Constantine’s hurt and angry expression as the door had closed out of his mind. Augello ignores him.

“You have someone who stands by you despite what you are, who’s willing to lie to the police for you, and you go and cheat on him. I thought I knew everything you were capable of, but--”

Vic finally stirs himself to action, switching on the radio and turning it so it’s facing the door. Augello raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t want hhhiii--her listening in,” he says, immediately frustrated with himself for instinctively explaining. 

“You think you can hide the sort of person that you are from her? Like you seem to have hidden it from John?” He sounds genuinely curious. 

“I’m not hiding anything from anybody. That’s not who I am anymore.” 

“Right, because that’s the sort of thing you can just shake, can you? You think you can just stop being the kind of person who almost beats their friend to death for no reason?”

“No reas-- no _reason_?” Vic feels his chest constricting, his face reddening, “He-- you _know_ what he did.”

“What he did, Charlie? I know that he refused to testify against you even after you put him in the hospital for over a month. And then, even then, that he insisted you were innocent despite all of the evidence against you.” Vic wants to scream. His short nails are pressing into the skin of his palms but it’s not helping, he can feel his whole body trembling with barely-contained rage. He wants to grab Augello by the shoulders and shake him until he finally understands that _of course_ Adrian never thought that he was the one who attacked Miriam, who stabbed her and tried to rape her one night when they were all fourteen. Of course Adrian had never thought that it was Vic who did it, because it was _Adrian_ , Adrian who had stolen Vic’s new knife and who had framed him for everything. But all he can do is shake and scream internally. 

“I want you to leave,” he manages to say, every word over-controlled and effortful. It is taking every ounce of will he has to not punch Augello in his smug, smiling face.

“I know the kind of person you are,” Augello says, leaning forward almost imperceptibly, as though steeling himself for a blow, “and maybe everything doesn’t add up for Adrian’s murder, or Hax’s, but there’s still something wrong with you, and you’ll prove it one day, Charlie.”

“My _name_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, “is _Victor_. And you can arrest me or you can leave, detective.” Augello stares at him, deflating slightly as Vic makes no move towards him. 

“Fine,” he says, finally breaking eye contact, “fine. We’ll do it your way, _Victor_.” He turns and walks to the door, “I’ll keep my eye on the news,” he says, hand going to the doorknob, “we’ll see what happens.” Vic’s hands tighten on the back of the chair, making the wood creak, his knuckles going white. Augello opens the door, and John is standing there, shoeless and seething. Augello takes an involuntary step back. 

“John,” he says, then, lower, conspiratorially, “did you see--”

“The slag leaving? Yes, I’m aware, detective, thank you,” John says, never taking his eyes off of Charlie. Augello glances back over his shoulder. With some effort, Vic releases the chair. 

“You might not want to stay here tonight,” he says, still quietly, as if Vic can’t hear him, “it won’t be safe. We have somewhere you can go--”

“Don’t you worry, mate, I can handle meself,” he says, and then he’s pushing Augello out the door and slamming it behind him. 

“John,” Charlie says, his voice soft and cautious.

“You utter prick,” John says, rounding on him, quietly furious. 

“Okay, wait--” Charlie starts to say, holding his hands up. 

“No. Stop being such a prick and listen for five seconds, Charlie. Do you even fucking see what’s happening here? No, of course you bloody don’t. You can’t even see that your precious Miriam literally just tried to frame you for murder.” Charlie feels his eyes widen, his mouth dropping open. 

“John, we discussed this, no she didn’t. Where is this coming from?” he recovers. 

“Augello just told you! Oh my fucking god, Charlie! She sent the police to find you with a dead body! She was his ‘reliable information,’ and you know how I know that? Because she was the only person who knew you would be there, you gobshite!” 

“You’re... you’re leaping to a lot of conclusions, John,” Charlie says, trying desperately to push the growing flush of adrenaline and fear down. 

“I’m bloody not. It doesn’t matter whatever stupid shite happened between you in the past. She is doing this, she is doing bloody all of it, and you’d see it if you opened your fucking eyes.” 

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Charlie asks, and he can feel the anger that had almost sunk away after Augello’s departure resurge, filling every part of him with a vicious energy, “You just can’t stand that I won’t tell you what happened. As if you would have ever told me what happened in Newcastle.” He knows immediately that he’s said the wrong thing. John’s face goes blank, the color draining from it visibly, and he becomes utterly still. His eyes close for a long few seconds, and when they reopen they are chips of blue stone, hard and cold and empty. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice gone dangerously soft, “so you can know everything about my life, and all I get are whatever scraps of yours that you think I deserve?” 

“John, I--” he tries to say, but John is already gone, the door’s slam reverberating through the walls. He stares at the door, entertaining for a moment the idea of chasing John down. But what can he say, how can he apologize for this? He teeters for a moment on a precipice over a nameless chasm before he seizes on the only thing he knows. It hurts, he wants to deny it, but he can’t. Something is wrong with Miriam’s story. With one last glance back at the door, still closed, he turns to the window. 

***

Night has fully fallen by the time he reaches Miriam’s house, parking down the street out of habit rather than any particular desire to disguise his destination. There is a light on in the back of the house, which filters faintly through the front windows. He rings the doorbell, listening as it echoes through the house. Faintly he hears a sound like a heavy object falling to the floor, followed by running footsteps. He rings the bell again, more urgently. A voice mingles with the fading bells, a woman screaming from somewhere in the depths of the house, her voice high-pitched and frantic, shrieking for help. He fumbles with the door handle, but the lock holds. After several kicks the wood splinters, and he bursts into the foyer. Several small tables are overturned, spilling their contents across the floor, and there is a hole punched in one wall. 

“Miriam?” he calls out, heedless of who he might be alerting to his presence. He is answered by another scream, pinpointing it to the second floor. He takes the steps two at a time, finds more devastation on the landing. To the right a bedroom’s door closes, and a lock is audibly slammed into place. He can hear sobbing, a woman’s voice begging. He breaks the door with a single well-place kick, and pushes inside. 

There is a sound like a broom handle snapping, and he stumbles backwards, a hand going involuntarily to his side, which is suddenly wet. He breathes in sharply, and breathing feels... wrong. He looks down at his side, at the blood bubbling as it exits his body, and he falls. His shoulder impacts the doorjamb painfully, sending a whip of pain through his body that terminates agonizingly in the bullet wound. He puts out a hand to catch himself, his breath coming in increasingly short and painful gasps, but there is nothing there. He lands on his knees, collapsing sideways until he’s half sitting, half lying against the wall. Some small part of him remembers vaguely to cover the bullet hole, to close the chest wound.

“Miriam,” he barely manages to gasp. She is standing in the middle of the bedroom, pistol leveled at his head. There are tears streaking her cheeks, still welling up in her eyes, but her face is completely devoid of emotion. 

“You couldn’t just mind your own business and let yourself get arrested and rot in jail like you deserve, you fucking psycho,” she says, lowering the gun as it becomes clear that Vic can offer no resistance. She kneels down next to him. “The police will be here soon,” her voice is even, but he detects an edge of smugness there, of pride, “you’ll be dead by then, of course. Shot in self defense after you broke into my home and tried to kill me, just like you killed poor Adrian and his psychiatrist,” she tuts, “I think deep down we all knew that you’d never change.”

“W-why?” it hurts to ask. He has begun to feel like he’s floating, detached from himself. 

“Because literally no one cares about you, and you ruin everything you touch, Charlie. Like you did with Adrian. He liked you better than he did me, even after everything you did to him, even after I told him that you attacked me. It’s your fault that he’s dead, Charlie.”

“You,” he whispers, feeling his hand slackening on the wound in his side, his vision swimming and blurring. He understands, in this darkening place, that everybody was always right about Adrian, that it was Miriam who had stolen his knife, Miriam who had hurt herself and then spun a story designed to hurt him, to hurt both of them. He wants to do something, to move, anything, but his limbs are sluggish and his mind keeps returning to John, and he can’t stop thinking about how thoroughly and stubbornly he has gone about ruining his own life, how he should have trusted John, and how he’s going to die without ever telling John that he’s sorry. 

“John was right,” he whispers, mostly to himself. 

“Hmm?” Miriam asks, leaning closer, “What’s that? Your boyfriend?” His surprise must show on his face, because she snorts. “Yeah, I knew, Charlie, I always knew about you. As if I didn’t see through you from the start, like I didn’t know what you wanted from Adrian.” She sits back on her heels, staring at him consideringly, “It’s a shame John didn’t come with you. Murder-suicide has a real ring to it. Maybe you could have watched Mick beat him to death, then you’d know how I feel now Adrian is dead.” There is a hitch in her voice, and he thinks she might actually be serious, that she genuinely blames him for Adrian’s death. 

“Well, here I am,” says a voice from somewhere to the left, “where’s this bloke, then?”

Miriam pitches over backwards, scrambling away from Charlie. A cool hand touches his face, and he leans into the sensation, feeling his vision clear and the burning pain of breathing ease a little. The hand withdraws, and Charlie tries to follow it, his vision finally focusing on John, who is advancing towards a cowering Miriam, huddled and pleading in the corner. 

“He’s not here, is he? It’s just you. And me. And the flames of Hell.” Bluish-white flames flicker around him, and as he speaks they spring up around Miriam too. She shrieks, but her body doesn’t burn. John begins to chant, and it resonates oddly in Charlie’s chest, in his mind, incomprehensible and unsettling. He knows that John will kill her.

“John,” he says, and then again, louder, “John!” The strain of shouting sends a shock of pain through his chest, an awful wrenching pressure that feels as if someone is trying to pull his ribs apart with their bare hands. He tries to speak again, but it leaves his lips as a wretched, choked whimper. John turns to look at him, the flames dying back as Charlie wheezes, feeling tears making tracks down his face as the blood oozes sluggishly between his fingers. John is at his side in an instant, one hand covering Charlie’s, pressing it more tightly against the wound, the other going to his face. “You can’t kill her,” he pants. John’s face immediately darkens. 

“Charlie, if you say she’s innocent one more time--”

“Police,” he says, “she has to... police.” His eyes are beginning to close against his will.

“I see,” John’s voice sounds like it is echoing from the top of a well. He begins muttering something that Charlie doesn’t think he would understand even if he were fully conscious, and then pain is shooting through his side as though he has been suddenly dipped in scalding water. His eyes shoot open, his mouth gaping. “Don’t move,” John says curtly, removing his hand from Charlie’s side, “As for you, you cunt,” he stands and rounds on Miriam, who is still cowering, “there’s no reversing that curse. Your soul is chained to Flereous now, and it’s his forever. When you die you’ll _wish_ you were only in Hell. _When_ that time comes depends on how much more you want to fuck with Charlie and me.” Miriam whimpers and curls in on herself. “Good,” his voice is cold and dispassionate, “now call the police and clean up this mess you’ve made, or you’ll learn what real pain is.” Miriam nods immediately, desperately, scrambles crab-like over to the phone on her desk. John watches her dial, then is back at Charlie’s side. “This won’t hold,” he says, sliding an arm around his back and trying to drag him up onto his feet. 

“John,” he struggles to school his limbs into cooperation, sagging into John’s arms despite his best efforts, “I’m so sorry.” His head lolls onto John’s shoulder, arms draped around him in a parody of an embrace. Distantly, he worries that his blood is staining John’s coat. “I’m sorry,” he repeats again into John’s neck. John says nothing, simply rocks forward, spurring them both into motion. They make it almost all the way down the stairs before the pain catches up with him, so sudden and shocking that he feels the air physically leave his lungs. He makes a soft noise, knees buckling, weight sagging onto John, who rushes them down the last few steps, just in time for Charlie’s vision to finally be consumed with blackness. 

***

When he wakes up in the hospital bed, tender and raw and covered in crisp, white bandages, he is alone. He blinks slowly, painkillers and blood loss and general confusion muddling his mind. The light from the window and the panels of the various machines that surround him are the only things that alleviate the darkness of the room. To his left, the other occupant snores gently behind a curtain. He looks at the chair pulled slightly towards his bedside, then up at the ceiling. 

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again it is daytime. Augello is sitting in the chair next to the bed, texting. A balloon bobs gently next to him, “It’s a girl!” written on it in pink glitter. He closes his eyes quickly, hoping that he’ll fall asleep again. 

“Hello, Victor,” Augello says. Vic’s eyes open slowly. He doesn’t speak, just lets his head shift slightly on the pillow, so he’s looking straight at the detective. “I thought you’d like to know that Miriam confessed to everything,” he says, never once looking Charlie in the eye, “so, uh... sorry for accusing you of murder and attempted murder so many times. Oh,” he grabs the trailing pink ribbon and ties it to the end of the bed, “I was going to bring flowers, but this was all they had.”

There are many tests and pills and bandage changes and serious talks about how, yes, this wound will severely limit his kickboxing hobby, and in between them all he is visited by friends and colleagues. They bring him newspapers and important documents and books that Nora swears helped her get through the period of bed rest leading up to the birth of her second daughter. Tot drops by several times to make oblique jokes about the irony of him getting shot on his own time. 

He’s half asleep when he smells cigarettes and the peculiar scent of the outdoors in the early morning. For a moment he thinks it’s just another dream, before he grows slowly aware of the chill emanating from the end of his bed, as of someone who has just stepped in through a door and whose body hasn’t yet had the chance to acclimatize to the relative warmth of the indoors. 

“I didn’t know you were expecting.” Charlie finally opens his eyes. John is backlit by the window, his hair a messy blond halo. He is poking at Augello’s balloon, now half deflated, bobbing sadly at the end of the bed.

“... Surprise,” he says, “I was waiting for the end of the first trimester to tell you.” John nods, still looking at the balloon. 

“Well, I’d call her Mary Ann.” He tilts his head to the side, considering. “Maybe Tamsin.”

“Tamsin is a nice name,” Charlie says, going along uncertainly. 

“Mary Ann for a middle name, then,” John says, fiddling with the ribbon, seemingly fixated on it. 

“John,” he’s steeled himself, but he still isn’t ready for when John finally turns his eyes on him, hard and calculating even in the dim light cast by the crescent moon outside, “I’m sorry,” he says, rushing a little to get the words out, “I’m sorry for everything.” John hums in agreement, averting his eyes towards the curtain, where the room’s other occupant is snoring quietly.

“I know,” he says, still not looking at him, “it’s fine.”

“Seriously, John, you deserve so much better than... than everything I put you through. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, and I’m sorry for trying to hide things from you, and I’m sorry for looking into your past.” John’s eyes snap back to him, cool and considering. Something crosses his face, but he smoothes it down immediately. 

“It’s fine, Charlie. I should have known you’d find out about Newcastle. You’re a detective, after all.” He shrugs, for a moment almost looking like his normal self. 

“No, that’s not fair, that doesn’t excuse anything, I didn’t... I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, every word a struggle, every word inadequate to explain. John walks towards the head of the bed, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

“I know, Charlie,” John says, and then his hand is in Charlie’s hair, yanking his head back hard. Charlie’s mouth gapes open, and John tilts a strangely glowing greenish liquid into it from a bottle that he has pulled from the depths of his coat, “but you could have _died_ , you fucking idiot, and for what? You didn’t listen to me, you didn’t trust me, and it almost got you bloody killed.” Charlie splutters, half choking on the liquid, struggling desperately to escape the seemingly endless flow, but John’s grip is iron and his own limbs are drug-weak and weary. “I get why you wouldn’t want to trust me after you found out about Newcastle, and maybe I deserve that, but is it worth dying over, you bloody idiot?” The flow of the liquid finally slackens and John releases his hair. Charlie throws himself onto his side, heaving great breaths of air and coughing around the liquid that has found its way into his lungs. 

“John,” he pants, “I didn’t-- I didn’t stop trusting you after I found out about Newcastle. I’m not Amanda Waller, alright, I have standards. I found out about it before we ever met.” John stares at him for a long moment. 

“What?” he finally asks. 

“I said I found out before we ever met,” Charlie coughs again, a deep and heaving cough, and realizes with some shock that there is no pain in his side. “Did... did my lung just heal itself?”

“What do you mean you found out before we ever met?” John snaps.

“I mean that I do my research, and I don’t work with bad people,” he says, gingerly pulling the bandage off his torso, “look, the bullet hole is completely gone! John, what did you do?” John waves the question away.

“And after you did your research... you still wanted to work with me?”

“You came highly recommended. Well... sort of highly,” Charlie smiles tentatively, but John doesn’t smile back, his face completely blank. “I mean,” Charlie rushes to continue, “I’m not an expert on magic or anything, but it seemed to me that child sacrifice isn’t exactly the kind of thing you do once and then never again, so I just assumed it was some sort of accident.”

“An accident,” John repeats, voice devoid of intonation or emotion.

“Yes?” Charlie says, “They happen. I once accidentally killed a man by falling out of a helicopter and landing on him, so I can’t really judge.” John stares at him and then, suddenly, breaks into what can only be described as a giggle. “Okay look it wasn’t funny,” Charlie says, struggling to restrain his own slightly hysterical laughter, all of the stress and emotion of the past week finally catching up with him. “And I’m sure Newcastle wasn’t funny either,” he says, wiping away the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes when he finally gets his breath back, “I understand, I don’t judge you for it. I never stopped trusting you, I was ashamed and angry and stupid. I made a mistake.” 

“You’re bloody right you did. You berk,” John says, but there’s warmth in his voice now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out and grabbing John’s hand, holding tightly in case he tries to withdraw, “And seriously, my lung?” he gestures with his free hand at the bandages that are still half clinging to his un-shot ribs. 

“Just a little water from the undry cauldron,” he says.

“Oh, is that all,” Charlie replies, arching an eyebrow, “how silly of me.” 

“’S magic, Charlie. I stole it. Don’t worry about it.” Charlie narrows his eyes. 

“That feels like exactly the sort of thing I _should_ worry about,” 

“Nah,” John says, tugging on his hand to urge him out of the bed, “Jason Blood owes me one anyways.”

“What an ominous name.” 

“Ha, don’t worry about him Charlie, he’s not the one you should be worrying about,” he throws back the blankets and urges Charlie to move his legs. 

“That doesn’t really fill me with confidence, here,” he says, resisting. 

“C’mon Charlie, don’t you trust me?” he grins, but there’s the slightest hint of an edge to his voice as he manages to drag Charlie so he is sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

“Well, yeah, but...” he hesitates, then redirects, “I don’t think I’m supposed to just leave, John,” he puts one foot onto the cold tile floor and immediately retracts it, hissing at the shock. 

“What, are you worried you’re going to tear out your stitches?” 

“I’m not entirely confident I can stand up,” he admits, shivering as he puts both feet on the ground. John watches as he tries to put his weight on his own two legs, and catches him when his knees buckle. 

“All right, all right,” he mutters, settling him back onto the bed and kicking Charlie’s shoes to him from somewhere next to the bed, tossing clothing to him from a bag Charlie hadn’t noticed. He watches him get changed, tapping his foot slightly until Charlie has finished stuffing himself into an oversized sweater. “Come on, lean on me.” They hobble together out of the ward, through the silent halls, and into the cold, crisp, early morning. They walk in silence for some time, John smoking a cigarette as best he can with only one functional arm. 

“Would you like to hear everything?” Charlie asks, “What happened between Adrian and Miriam and me?” John tilts his head, observing Charlie from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t have to, Charlie,” he says, finally.

“No, I know. I want to.” 

John exhales smoke in a steady stream that mingles with Charlie’s own visible breath and, after a brief pause, he nods.


End file.
